


Hints for a happy household

by gloss



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, DCU (Comics)
Genre: 1970s, Blow Jobs, Domesticity, Gay Liberation, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, old fic reposted for new pals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-09-06
Updated: 2008-09-06
Packaged: 2018-07-14 10:59:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7168343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloss/pseuds/gloss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Steve are living in a self-made utopia.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hints for a happy household

**Author's Note:**

> wrote this ages ago for Jubilancy as part of a Cap Gay Lib AU that I never finished because I'm terrible. found it on insanejournal & cleaned it up in case it's of interest.

Leila and Sharon got on Steve's case recently. He'd cleared the various bottles and cans of beer off the coffee table at the end of the evening and had set to wiping off the condensation rings with a paste of mineral oil and salt. His mother had sworn by the remedy, he told them when they snickered, and that led to jokes about how he was the best homemaker out there, how proud Sam must be of him, how he ought to contribute to Hints From Heloise.

"You take care of what you've got," he'd said, hearing both his mother (as she darned her pressure socks) and, of all people, Bucky (as he re-sealed both their canteens), as he spoke. "Otherwise, you don't --"

The coffee table had belonged to one of Sam's elderly clients. It was irreplaceable.

Leila buried her face in Sharon's neck as they laughed together; Steve finished the task and said no more.

So it is strange that this morning, as Steve extricates himself from Dick's sleepy cling, that he is thinking in terms of Hints From Heloise. 

An orderly home is a happy one, he thinks as he measures out the ground coffee. Six tablespoons, plus one for the pot.

He sets the percolator on the left burner and heats butter in a pan on the right, then washes last night's dishes while the onions cook. He adds beaten eggs just as the percolator starts to squeak and grumble, turns down the heat on the omelette, and dries his hands on a towel as he heads into the office to rouse Sam.

The secret, if there is one, to a good morning is to take each moment as it comes and use it to its fullest.

Just inside the office, he refills Figaro's water bowl and scritches her behind the ears before turning his attention to Sam.

Waking Sam is never the easiest of enterprises, and it's all the more difficult when he's twisted up on the loveseat, swathed in his blanket. The loveseat is a convertible but Sam rarely, if ever, bothers to fold it out before going to sleep, the nights he spends in here when working late.

"Hey, buddy," Steve says when Sam finally pulls himself upright, rubbing his eyes and yawning. "Rise and-or shine."

Sleep returns many of us to childhood, and Steve cherishes the chance to look backward, to glimpse Sam in the past, gangly limbs and oversized hands, bright eyes and easier grin.

Figaro jumps onto the arm of the loveseat and bats at Sam's hand. Sam's hands land heavily on Steve's shoulder and he kisses with a sour, sticky mouth.

"Mm." Steve palms the back of Sam's head and squeezes gently before pulling back. "Shower's all yours, then some eggs."

"Coffee?"

Steve shoulder-jostles Sam as he stands. "What do you take me for?"

"You have a good time last night?" Sam casts around for something, hands on his hips, thumbs in his briefs' elastic.

Steve smiles as he snaps out the blanket and folds it rapidly.

"Cat with a goddamned canary." Sam shakes his head.

Steve doesn't like to think of himself as a predator. He's doing his best to dismantle as much chauvinism as he possibly can. He tucks the folded blanket behind one of the cushions as he tries to think of a rejoinder. Coming up empty, he just slaps Sam lightly.

"Figure of speech." Sam hooks his arm around Steve's neck and blows a raspberry in his ear. "Just a figure of --"

"Speech," Steve says and shoos him toward the bathroom. "I know."

Sam kisses him again, hands on Steve's cheeks, holding him there, chest pressed up against Steve's. "Good. Now believe it."

The muscles in Sam's back shift and lift like wings as he wanders down the hall, scratching his back and humming. 

There are still moments when all this feels -- more than that, *is* -- perfectly unreal. Life with Sam, and Sam himself, are revealed to be just a Technicolor dream projected shakily against the frag-pitted and -scarred yellow wall of the mess at LZ [Gator]. The print is old and warped, the colors yellowed, the crowd unruly.

These moments snap into place quick as anything; Steve has learned, though not well, not to fight their arrival.

"You're fucking Rob Petrie, Ricky Ricardo, that's who you are," Bucky hissed once. Their bunker was dark as the pitch on Bucky's palms, the air just as hot and wet as blood. "Man of the house, father of the fucking *year*, Steven Francis Rogers..."

The subject of their disagreement is gone; only Bucky's accusations remain, sharp in his mountain accent, so close to Steve's ear he shivers against the breath and reverberation.

"...a name?" Sam pauses outside the bedroom door and waggles his eyebrows.

Steve rocks back on his heels. 

He lives with a wonderful man, a beautiful and kind man, someone who kisses like an angel and steadies Steve before he knows he has stumbled. Against all logic, *this* was not the dream.

"Say that again?" Steve asks, taking a quick breath before stepping back from Sam's hold.

"Did last night have a name?" Sam asks.

"Richard," Steve replies. "You'll like him."

Sam's hair is beaded with water as he leans out of the doorway. "Oh, will I?"

"He's still here," Steve says and doesn't bother to hide the grin. Sam's bark of laughter bounces off the tiles as Steve turns back to the kitchen.

*

The percolator is empty and only warm to the touch when Sam gets out of the shower. His omelette is cold, but he downs it in three big bites before heading for the bedroom.

Last night's trick is still curled up like a cat in the bed.

The kid is just as young and skinny as Sam expected. Steve can deny it all he likes, but he has a soft spot for those just barely out of their teens, scrawny as hell, with far more jizz than sense. He can chase the ghost of Bucky Barnes all over God's green earth, just so long as he comes home, far as Sam's concerned.

This kid's in the mold, then, but this one got left to bake several shades darker than usual. Puerto Rican, most likely.

He's scrambling to get out of bed while keeping himself covered decently. From the closet, Sam waves him back. "Easy, kid. Just grabbing my clothes."

"Sorry, sorry, I --" Very few Puerto Ricans -- hell, very few WASPs -- have eyes that blue.

"Really, no need." Sam tosses him his underwear and sits on the edge of the bed, closer to the kid than, really, is strictly necessary. He pulls on his socks before adding, "About the coffee, though. You owe me."

Richard glances wildly at the dirty plate, smudged with melted cheese and scraps of egg, and empty coffee cup. "I didn't know --"

"Working man." Sam pulls up his slacks. "Need my coffee."

Richard ducks his head and blushes. Interesting, on skin the color of warm toast. "Steve said --"

"What'd Steve say?" Sam can't help pushing the matter. The kid's too pretty, too...something to let off easy.

The kid coughs and seems, after a moment, to gain a little courage. He squares his shoulders and meets Sam's eye. "Steve said you didn't mind sharing."

Sam swallows the laughter and plasters on the frown he uses to middling effect on truants and recalcitrant teen fathers. "There's a world of difference between sharing and hogging, don't you think?"

"I suppose so," Richard says.

"Between taking what belongs to someone else all for yourself and --"

"Sharing."

Sam winks at him. "Bingo."

"I'm really sorry, I *am*. I should have thought, and I'll make it up to you, I swear."

Richard speaks gravely, so earnestly that Sam could cry, that he *would* cry, if he hadn't heard Steve sound a thousand times more innocent and serious. "Forget about it."

"No, I *won't*." Richard's knees are up against his chest, and then they fan open as he leans in to grasp Sam's wrist.

"Look, Richard --"

"Dick. My name's Dick."

Sam can't even laugh at that. It would be too cruel. He pats the kid's arm. "Okay, then."

"I could make more coffee," Dick offers.

Sam shrugs on his shirt and buttons it up. "I like Steve's."

"Oh. Sorry."

"You apologize one more time and I might consider violence."

"This is -- I've never --" The bed creaks as Dick shifts restlessly.

Without his coffee, Sam's fingers are thick and clumsy. One of his cufflink studs jumps from his grip; before he can bend to retrieve it, Dick has twisted himself inhumanly, legs split and arm, it seems, freed from its socket to reach and grab it.

"Here you go." Just like that, he's upright again. Dick's hand is warm, his thumb lingering on Sam's wrist, right over the pulse-point, as he presses the stud into Sam's palm.

"Thought you were a college kid," Sam says, still trying to make sense of the jigsaw-puzzle of that move. "Look like a carnival contortionist to me."

Dick grins as he pulls one leg over his shoulder. "Steve said I'm very flexible."

"Steve's an --" Sam pauses to concentrate on fastening first one cuff, then the other. He needs to finish getting ready; he needs to go to work. He does *not* need these stag-film images of Steve and this boy, gold on toast, moving so *flexibly* together. "A very observant man."

"I've never done anything like this before."

Sam glances at Dick quickly. "Bet you tell that to all the guys."

He was kidding, of course, but the kid's face crumples and his shoulders sag. "I haven't. And you and Steve, you're being so *groovy* about this, I don't know how to --"

Sam has, on the outside, forty minutes before he has to be in the office. If he's lucky and catches the IRT express uptown, he can make it. He'll be fine.

"Spit it out, kiddo," he says gently, threading his tie through his collar.

"Steve said -- said you --" Dick shivers, crossing his arms and rubbing them briskly, before looking up. "You wouldn't mind."

Sam slides on his loafers and finishes knotting his tie. "I mind plenty. Anything in particular?"

"And he said, Steve said, it's okay to go for what you want, it's okay to want what you want, so long as there's mutual respect and --"

Sam could nod and give the kid what he is so clearly fumbling after. That's what Steve would do. That's what Steve, in all likelihood, *did* do last night: he found himself the prettiest, sweetest virgin in the five boroughs and Long Island, and charmed him, held him, kissed him, coaxed open that mouth and those arms, those *flexible* legs, and told him all the while happy fairy tales about love and pleasure and respect.

But Sam isn't Steve. The kid's embarrassed, stuttering yammer is somehow annoying and arousing all at once. Dick's skin is almost hot to the touch, his hair is silky, his eyes goddamned unearthly.

"Steve said what, pray tell?" Sam's arm slides around Dick's shoulder, his fingertips brushing one coffee-bean nipple. "What more wisdom can we hear from Chairman Steve's --" He pauses, remembering Sharon's half-fond, half-exasperated nickname, and corrects himself. "Sister Steve's Little Lavender Book?"

Dick blinks at him, incomprehension blurring his features. He shifts a little closer, however, confirming one of Steve's adages about trusting the body over the mind or some such nonsense. "Steve said you were a good kisser."

Sam spreads his legs a little as his cock twitches and thickens. "One of the best, I do believe."

"And I've -- see -- not before last night except a few times but they didn't count --" As he trails off, Dick clutches at Sam's arm, as if it's a lifeline, as if *Sam*, of all souls, has something to offer him in the way of help.

"Kid." Sam runs his fingers along Dick's jaw; the skin has barely any stubble. "I got work in twenty." 

He fibs and fudges the time, just to be safe. 

He can see the lump of his cock under the snug double-knit fabric of his slacks, watches as Dick strokes it, *feels* it. Inside and outside, he's half-watching, half-doing, wondering if Steve's gone to work yet, if he'll make the express, even as he kisses Dick's sweet mouth, wide and warm, tongue like honey, tasting like bitter coffee.

"I'm going -- need to stand up." Sam has to firm his balance for a moment before he unzips his fly and reaches in, shuddering, to take out his cock. "Neater this way --"

"Neater," Dick echoes, nodding so fast that his breath puffs irregularly over Sam's balls and thigh. "Work soon, right?"

"Yeah." Sam palms himself and thrusts gently forward. 

Dick's a good kid. God only knows why *that* comes to Sam's mind, comes and sticks, but it does. He's a good kid, a damn quick learner -- if he's telling the truth about his inexperience, which Sam suspects, given the stammer and strange, fluttery licking kisses he's giving. When Sam groans -- because an inexperienced suckjob is still a suckjob, after all -- Dick moves more quickly, and Steve's influence is there, in the thick of tongue down his shaft and fingertips twirling the hair on his balls. The messy noises, the greenhorn's choking gasps, those are all Dick's, however, and unexpectedly touching. The kid must've been locked in a tower to get this old without knowing much more than you can learn on your own hand.

He's a good kid, good at this, eager as anything, and Sam rocks forward, faster and harder. He might be a nice guy -- many would disagree, but Steve claims he is -- but his cock's just as greedy and needful as any man's. Heat coils in his gut and tightens his balls as Dick grasps at his buttocks -- another Steve move, thumbs parting the crack -- and gamely bobs his head. Sam tugs on Dick's dark hair, tugs to warn him, however perfunctorily, before tossing back his head and fucking forward. Only then does he see Steve in the doorway, dressed in Levi's and undershirt for the site, keys in hand and hair slicked back, dark and wet from the shower.

Dick shakes his head against Sam's grasp.

"Don't stop now," Steve says, and it's his smile, floating superimposed over Dick's pretty, gaping face, that Sam sees as light fluoresces and he shoots, jabbing, and comes.


End file.
